


A Birthday in the Family

by Heatherlucky29



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Batman: Under the Red Hood (2010), DCU, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Alfred Pennyworth is the Best, Angst, Batbrothers (DCU), Batbrothers (DCU) Bonding, Batfamily (DCU), Birthday Presents, Canon-Typical Violence, Damian Wayne is Robin, Dick Grayson is Nightwing, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Jason Todd is Red Hood, Tim Drake is Red Robin, gotham city has murder opossums
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-10
Updated: 2020-10-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:01:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26383066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heatherlucky29/pseuds/Heatherlucky29
Summary: Fresh out of ideas, the batboys get Dick one of those old coupon booklets for his birthday. Shenanigans ensue, and Dick might just find a way to give each of them a gift in return.
Relationships: Tim Drake & Dick Grayson & Jason Todd & Damian Wayne
Comments: 33
Kudos: 199





	1. Chapter 1

The package was pocket-sized, colorful and clumsily wrapped. Damian had found it on one of his jealousy-fueled forays into Jason’s old room, in a desk drawer under a Walkman and a dog-eared Shakespeare anthology.  
Sloppy handwriting on a tag read: “To Dick, from LW” in faded blue Sharpie.  
Like the rest of the room, it was a relic of the past, coated in a thin layer of dust and left undisturbed after the series of events that had rendered fifteen-year-old Jason a memory and Bruce a shell of his former self.  
Unsettled, Damian shut the drawer, careful to leave no evidence of his presence, and left, the little book all but forgotten.

\---

Timothy Jackson Drake-Wayne was having a rough day before the genetically-modified murder opossums made a mess of Gotham’s sewer systems. After hours of wrangling and a rabies shot to the stomach, the last thing he needed was the little blue reminder on his WayneEnterprises calendar telling him he’d forgotten Dick’s upcoming birthday. His sour mood did not go unnoticed by Alfred, who had just unplugged the mansion’s expensive coffeemaker with a pointed look at the kitchen clock. 

“Is something the matter, Master Timothy?”

Feeling chagrined and somewhat guilty for contributing to the destruction of the butler’s sleep schedule, Tim tore his eyes away from the empty mug on the counter. “Nothing major, Alfred. Just forgot Dick’s birthday was coming up, and it’s too late to order him a present.”

“Hm. It appears that Master Damian has run into a similar problem. Perhaps you can consult with him and come up with an alternative together.”  
Tim barely restrained an eye-roll. “I think I’ll take my chances, Alfred. I don’t think Dick would appreciate my getting maimed as a birthday gift.”

Dodging the butler’s reproachful glare, Tim slipped out the door and headed to the garage, comforted by the knowledge that Demon Brat was in the same boat, and that Stephanie Brown was always down for a 3 a.m. Baja Blast.

\---

“The problem with having a billionaire for a dad is everyone pretty much already has what they want.” Tim lamented, newly revived by the Blast’s sweet sweet caffeine content. “I literally can’t think of anything Dick likes that he doesn’t already have. I’d get him the latest shitty action movie, but I hacked Babs’ history on a hunch and she’s already got HD digital copies set to download straight to his desktop at midnight.” He shifted in the passenger seat of Stephanie’s sedan. “I checked up on Bruce and he ordered some new acrobatics equipment for the Cave. I don’t know what Alfred’s planning, but it’s probably a cake or commemorative inside thing that goes back to before even Jason was around.” He drained the rest of his Blast, sighing dejectedly. “I’m outclassed and out of ideas.”  
Stephanie paused, cinnamon twist halfway to her mouth.

“You’re missing the point, Mr. Materialist. Remember what I got him a few years back?”

Tim crunched some leftover ice. “You mean the time you asked him to give you driving lessons? Didn’t you crash his car into the Commissioner’s commemorative park bench?” He dodged a sauce packet to the face.

“That’s not the point! The point is, we had fun-

“Demolishing Gotham City? OW.’ Tim rubbed his eyebrow, too late to bat the second sauce packet out of the air.

“NO, idiot, spending time together. Dick cares about family togetherness and crap like that way more than anything you can get him online. Give him something he can’t buy with a Bat MasterCard.”

Tim nodded, thoughtfully swirling the straw around the leftover ice in his cup.

“Maybe I should get him a piece of that park bench.”

He was unprepared for the onslaught of sauces Stephanie unleashed from the depths of her Taco Bell bag.

\---

Damian Wayne-Al Ghul had spent hours researching traditional American coming-of-age customs, and he was not impressed. Encasing pleasantries in patterned paper? Lighting dessertfare on fire? Please. How juvenile. He longed for the simple days at Ra’s compound, when all he had to worry about was bone-breaking training, not contrived celebrations and the pressures of personalized gifts. To the League of Assassins, to have a birthday was to achieve the bare minimum. One couldn’t serve the League if they were dead. He slammed his laptop shut, turning to pet the cat at his side. Alfred purred contentedly, oblivious to Damian’s dilemma. Grayson’s birthday was coming up, and Damian hadn’t even known that he was supposed to come up with a gift until it was far too late to procure one. How was he supposed to do this? What would someone close to Grayson give him for his birthday? A thought began to form in the back of his mind, a memory of a brightly colored package interrupted by an unexpected knock at the door.

“You may enter.” 

The door opened to reveal a disheveled Drake, presumably taxed from the day’s rodent incident and Alfred’s cutting back on the mansion’s available caffeine supply. He shuffled awkwardly, almost turning to leave before blurting out: “Do you know what you’re getting Dick for his birthday?”

Damian blinked, his usual arsenal of insulting greetings failing him. He settled for a haughty sniff, nailing the older boy with a practiced glare. “Unlike some people, Grayson considers my presence to be a gift, and requires no additional materials to maintain good favor.”

Drake rolled his eyes. “Okay, so you have no idea what to get him either. Good to know.” He turned to leave, moving to shut the door behind him. Damian shifted uncomfortably before calling out:

“Drake.”

Tim paused, glancing back around the door. “Yeah?”

“Perhaps we could…collaborate.”

Tim bit back a smirk, “Alfred talked to you too, didn’t he?”

“Pennyworth can be very persuasive.”

\---

It was nearing four and the boys still hadn’t been able to come up with anything.  
Tim stared up at the ceiling from his position petting Titus on the Cave floor. “You’re good with drawing, and I used to do photography. Maybe we could make Dick a craft or something.”

Damian sniffed. “Tt. I doubt Grayson would appreciate amateur art.”

Tim laughed. “Are you kidding? You could probably sneeze on a piece of paper and he’d put it up on his fridge.”

“Be that as it may, I feel Father and Alfred aren’t giving him paltry portraits and pictures of crime scenes.”

“Ugh.” Tim threw his arm over his eyes. “I know what he’s getting from everyone and it’s not helping at all.”

Damian’s curiosity was piqued. “How did you determine Pennyworth’s gift?”

Tim cracked open one eye. “Alfred? Easy. I checked next week’s grocery list, and there’s a lot of special orders. I’m 90% sure he’s making Dick a Romani dish from his childhood. As gifts go, it’s untouchable.” He paused. “You know what’s funny? If Dick could see us right now, not killing each other, he’d probably swoon. Too bad we can’t wrap that up and give it to him over dinner. And the selfie lighting in here is terrible, so a picture is out of the question.”

Damian scowled. “Who will be in attendance at this dinner?”

“Oh, the usual. Bruce, Alfred, us, probably Babs, Steph, Cass, maybe Jason, if Dick convinces Alfred to guilt-trip him into coming. I wonder what Jason’s getting him. Probably nothing. I doubt Jason’s gotten anyone a birthday present in years.” Tim scratched under the dog’s chin. He doubted Jason had been given a birthday present in years.

At this, Damian looked lost in thought. “Do you think Grayson and Todd were... close…before?” 

Surprised at the turn of the conversation, Tim nodded. “I wasn’t around, but based on the old case files they got along better than either of them did with Bruce for a while there.” 

Tim braced for the inevitable comment about his inferiority or Damian’s status as the “blood son”, but it didn’t come. Instead, Damian rose from his chair. “I have an idea. Follow me.”

Tim should have expected to be led to the only place in the mansion he actively avoided. Jason Todd’s childhood room filled him with a complicated series of emotions. Tim’s once-hero worship had been mostly quelled by a bullet to the thigh, but he couldn’t quite suppress the nostalgic admiration---nor senses of old and new grief, at Jason’s disastrous departure and his equally disastrous return--- brought on by seeing the untouched shrine of his predecessor. Tim couldn’t quite shake the knowledge that the Bruce who used to come here every night after patrol say goodnight to his son wasn’t the same Bruce who came here every night after to stare into space over an empty bed. He was startled from his reverie by Damian opening a desk drawer and brandishing a small package under his nose. 

“What’s that?” Tim asked, cursing himself for giving Damian an excuse to gloat over…whatever this was.

“Perhaps if we can’t determine an adequate gift, we can consult someone who knew Grayson.”

Tim blinked. “What are you saying, that you want to head on over to Crime Alley and ask Hood himself? Sounds like a good way to get a rubber bullet to the knees-“

“No, you fool. This package is a resource- what a young Todd would have gifted Grayson. If they were close, as you say, we may be able to devise an idea from it.”

They carefully shut the door and retreated to Damian’s room, where they peeled off the aging wrapping paper.  
Neither of them was expecting to find a homemade coupon booklet.

“Interesting.” mused Tim.

Damian grew frustrated. “I don’t see how this saccharine scrapbook is going to help us with Grayson.”

“Just wait. Jason may have been on to something. Look at what’s in here. ‘Good for a hug?’ ‘Redeem for 1 free movie night?’ This is 100% Dick. He’d eat this stuff up.”

Damian sniffed haughtily. “I suppose those actions would serve as a satisfactory boon for Grayson.” He wrinkled his nose at the booklet. “I doubt it will contend with Father and Pennyworth’s gifts.”

Tim’s gaze grew distant before focusing on Damian’s nightstand and it’s just-for-the-family Wayne Christmas portrait, in which a jubilant Dick in a gaudy reindeer sweater presided over the rest of the group, irascibly joyful. Jason hunched in the back corner next to Alfred, doing his best to make his muscular frame look smaller, white shock of hair striking amidst the rest of the family’s black. Tim hadn’t been able to hold back a genuine grin at the way Bruce denied Damian’s request to incorporate the BatCow, and Bruce looked tired, yet content. It had been the first family event Jason had come to, briefly sitting with them for an awkward dinner and making it through the Alfred-obligatory photo session before mumbling an excuse and setting off down the mansion’s extensive driveway on his motorbike. It was the happiest Tim had seen Dick, and Bruce and Alfred, in a long, long time. His eyes narrowed, alight with the telltale glimmer of a developing plan.

“I have an idea. Follow me.”


	2. Recruitment

"Oh, _fuck_ no." Jason muttered to himself upon seeing the light in his apartment from two rooftops over. The sun was rising, and the last thing he wanted to do was to deal with whomever- or whatever- had made it past his high-tech security system and through his front door.

As he was descending from his multi-month pit madness high (an ironic term, Jason once chuckled darkly to his therapist, given it was hands-down the lowest point out of both of his lives), some people in Jason's life put more trust in him than he did in himself. Barbara Gordon was not one of those people. If anything, Jason respected her more for her unwillingness to fully endorse in his "on-the-mendedness." It was nice that at least one person, after hearing about the infamous duffel bag and observing multiple months of murderous rage, would be able to make the decision to stop him if necessary, and would leave him the fuck alone as he figured his shit out. In a way, Babs' cynicism was refreshing, and when she offered to set up the security measures on his crappy apartment (not so much an offer, but a polite gesture, to give him the illusion that he had a choice in the matter), he understood and welcomed that her upgrades would serve a dual purpose: keeping people out, and, in an extreme relapse scenario, keeping Jason in. Oracle's tech was notoriously tough to crack, and with B taking a hint for once in his life and keeping his distance, that left one person in Gotham with the Bat-coding know-how to break in without tripping the alarms. Jason grimaced. His short history with the Replacement, post the whole rage-fueled homicidal debacle in which he had almost killed him, had largely been limited to averted eyes and the occasional grateful nod after a helping hand in the field. A house call was…unprecedented. 

His first thought was that there had been some sort of emergency and that the baby birds had come to ask him for help. On the off chance there was someone holding them hostage from a place outside of Jason's fire escape vantage point, Jason's hand crept towards the knife hidden in his boot, only stopping once he was satisfied this wasn't some kind of trap. He slipped in through the unlocked window, manifesting from the shadows in a way familiar to all who had encountered his former mentor.

"If you're looking to rehome some of those sewer rats, try somewhere else. I wouldn't know, but I bet there are better ways to go than rabies and a sewer-borne staph infection."

Tim absentmindedly scratched his stomach. "Opossums."

Jason quirked a heavy eyebrow.

Tim coughed. "They were opossums, not rats, totally different- and-uh- totally not the point. So-"

Jason cut him off, nailing his trespassers with a flat stare. "Is this about Dickface's b-day bash? You can tell Alfie to stop worrying, I won't be missing his chocolate cake."

Damian huffed. "I highly doubt Pennyworth will be making enough dessert to satisfy your unreasonable appetite."

"You're one to talk, Demon. How much is it costing Daddy Warbucks to feed the cow in the basement?"

"More than you're worth, Todd."

"Zip it, short stack."

Damian lunged forward, snarling: "I'll have you know that I will soon overtake Drake, given his ridiculous caffeine intake-"

"Enough!" Tim moved to cut off Damian's advance, settling him with Dick's signature hand to the shoulder and silencing his acerbic reply. "Jason, to answer your question- kind of?"

Jason's brow furrowed. "Well, if that's what you're here about, spit it out or get out. Seeing the two of you together and borderline-amicable is creeping me the fuck out."

Tim's eyes drifted to where Jason was meticulously cleaning his handguns, leaning against the windowsill and not breaking eye contact. He swallowed. "We need- well, we wanted to-"

Damian mercifully cut in: "We require your assistance in outperforming the competition for Grayson's celebratory gift."

Tim could tell from Jason's expression that A) he hadn't bothered to get something for Dick and B) that even dying hadn't rid Jason of the mile-wide Wayne-characteristic competitive streak. His hand stilled briefly on the gun. 

"What, you want me to help you brainstorm the ultimate gift for D-bird?" 

Well, it wasn't a 'fuck, no' right off the bat, so Tim soldiered on.

"You kind of…already have?" he supplied.

Jason's eyes narrowed. "Explain."

Tim held a hand out to Damian, who passed him the old set of birthday coupons. "Remember these?"

Jason's gaze shuttered. "Sure don't."

"Are you positive?" Tim pressed, hopefully offering the booklet to Jason.

Jason moved to take the proffered coupons. Tim shot Damian a scowl for his conspicuous casing of the kitchen for hidden weapons.

Jason went uncharacteristically quiet, turning the booklet over in his hands. He glanced up, meeting Tim's eyes. "Let me get this straight. You want me to participate in your plagiarized gift-giving, not because you want to give Dick a good present, but because you want yours to be better than everyone else's?"

Tim nodded in response. "Bringing you in is the only way to stunt on them."

"Oh yeah?" challenged Jason, "Why would I willingly subject myself to coupon-catering to Dickwad's every whim?"

Tim sensed that this would be the make-or-break moment for their scheme, and his brain went on autopilot, running through possible responses. 

What if he channeled Dick?  
" _Because he's your brother and you care about him_."  
No. Too sentimental. They were lucky Jason had been caught too off-guard by the booklet to toss them out at the implication of "family." 

How about Bruce? Tim summoned the image of a piercing BatGlare.  
" _Because it's your responsibility to honor your past commitment_."  
Absolutely not. Jason hadn't done well with that kind of reasoning even when they were on good terms. 

Hmm. Maybe a Damian approach would work.  
" _If you don't comply, we will burn this apartment complex to the ground_."  
Yeah, no. Threats would only lead to conflict escalation. Tim glanced at the multitude of weapons Jason had removed from his suit over the course of the conversation and swallowed. Steph would try to tempt Jason in the name of 'fun,' Cass would give him the silent treatment/staredown tactic she'd picked up scarily well from Bruce, and Alfred would have his way as quick as he could say a stern " _Now, Master Jason_." Tim knew he was none of those people. He had to think about what type of reasoning Jason would respond to. Unbidden, a memory stirred in the back of his mind. Eureka! He took his shot. 

"Because D took a pretty hard hit for you last month, and you owe him." Some of the tension left Jason's shoulders. Tim imperceptibly relaxed. Jason may have cut himself off from familial and emotional appeals, but the street kid in him knew the importance of settling a debt.

"Fine." he grimaced. "I'll do your dumb coupon thing. But the second Dickiebird and me are square, I'm done. No more breaking into my damn apartment."

"Deal." Tim grinned, pretending not to notice when Jason pocketed the original booklet. He crossed the kitchen and fired up Jason's coffeemaker, grabbing supplies from his bag and pulling Damian away from Jason's auxiliary weapons cabinet, to where he had been not-so-subtly inching for the duration of the conversation.

"Time to brainstorm low maintenance ways to give a high maintenance idiot a kickass birthday present. Any ideas?"


	3. Chapter 3

As birthday dinners go, Dick's was fairly uneventful. Alfred's cooking was sublime, Damian only threatened to kill Tim twice, and Bruce looked like his perpetual daytime headache had, for once, stopped short of a full-blown migraine. Touchy subjects were avoided, weapons were confiscated, Cass managed to avert a full-table food fight between Steph and Jason, and everyone made it to the dessert/gift-giving portion of the evening without bloodshed.   
Jason could tell that Alfred was practically glowing under his carefully moderated exterior, and that Dick was borderline actually glowing over an exterior with which he made no such effort. Though he tried to tell himself differently, Jason was looking forward to seeing the look on Dick's face when he pulled the boys' gift from the bottom of the pile.

They had decided on ten coupons. A fair number, but not excessive, and agreeable to Jason, who saw it as a coupon per week of recovery time he would have needed if Dick hadn't saved him from a sure bullet to the shoulder. It had cost Dick his chest Kevlar and a cracked a couple of his ribs, but Jason knew that Dick, self-sacrificing idiot that he was, would do it again both without question and without the thought to ask for anything in return. Sure enough, Dick had briefly reappeared at Jason's side a few days later, doing flips off of fire escapes, every bit his jovial, suffocating, sacrificial self.   
Idiot.

Jason had been back in the land of the living far longer than he had started living in it. Regaining sanity wasn't so much waking up, like: "Hmmm. On a scale of lifeless corpse to a duffle bag full of severed heads, how bloodthirsty and full of rage do I feel today?" as the slow departure of the angry green haze that had taken up residency in the decision-making part of his brain. It would have been so much easier to get up one morning, slate clean and ready to break out in song, flying around Gotham with the family, best of friends and not problematic as hell. But, as things were, Jason couldn't look back and draw a line between insanity and sanity. He couldn't pick out where he had ceased to be himself. He couldn't say for sure that he hadn't been the driving force behind the wheel for the atrocities he'd committed early on. For trying to kill Bruce's newest child soldiers.   
He couldn't take responsibility for the Pit sparking his emotions into an all-consuming rage, but the tinder- the complicated feelings he'd been left with, the disappointment, failure, anger- had been his own.   
Of course he would keep his distance. Months- years- of constant hate conditioning weren't a quick fix. Jason's beef with Bruce hadn't changed. He still wanted the Joker dead, and he still wasn't morally opposed to doing it. But his head was feeling more clear than it had since it was first muddied up by that fucking crowbar. And Jason knew that his endless cycle of anger and frustration and murder wasn't really going to change anything. 

So, Jason had been doing better. But he had no reliable internal metric to measure if he suddenly took a turn back for the worse.  
And Jason wasn't going to set foot in the mansion if there was a chance he'd go rabid and hurt anyone he grudgingly cared about. Alfred didn't deserve that. And, despite the younger one's stunningly bad attitude, neither of the baby bats did, either. Jason was done with collateral damage. Done causing it, and done being it.

So, he did his best to keep his distance. He put up with Dick randomly crashing patrols and chattering away, looking faintly dejected when Jason inevitably rejected his invitation to do anything after. If anyone got too close, he'd resort to intimidation and anger and empty threats to try to maintain that safe buffer.

His policy had finally changed after the Scarecrow incident last November. It had been standard Bat fare. There'd been a disturbance in the warehouse district over Thanksgiving break. Red Hood and Nightwing had run into each other in the field after following leads from different cases. Before Jason could answer Dick's barrage of guilt-trippy questions about why he hadn't come to the Wayne family Thanksgiving dinner, there was an ambush, obligatory ass-kickery, the apprehension of foes, and the release of a shipping container full of unwilling test subjects. Unfortunately, they hadn't made it out of the container before getting face-fulls of the newest batch of fear toxin. Jason was lucky: his rebreathing system had kicked in and filtered out enough to take the edge off. Dick wasn't so lucky. Unfortunately for them, this variant seemed to target memory centers, so while Jason was frantically and fruitlessly trying to remember how to get to his nearest safe house, his dipass older brother, arm slung over Jason's jacket, was offering a few groggy comments on the state of the seagulls in the adjacent harbor and recommending that they call BatGirl for backup. Growling in frustration, Jason had given in and called for an automized Batmobile to take them back to the Cave, where Alfred mercifully administered Dick a knockout drug as Tim synthesized an antidote. Dick woke up the next day, fit as a fiddle and back to cheerfully haranguing Jason for hangouts. Maybe it was for the best. He didn't need to remember the ride back. Jason wished he could forget how Dick- cheerful, unflappable, uncompromisable Dick- had looked at Jason and… cried. Maybe it was for the best that he didn't have to re-live a tearful apology to a total stranger who "looked like his little brother, the one he'd failed."

After making it back to his apartment, Jason had done the math on how far back in time the toxin had sent them both, and for him, it was to smack dab in the middle of his pit-madness-enabled murder spree. But Jason had been fine. He'd made it out of the warehouse, gotten an incapacitated Dick back to the mansion, and nodded- cordially, if not coldly-at a concerned Bruce on the way out, all while the voices he most feared, the ones most capable of triggering his anger, played on an endless loop in his head. When the new vest arrived at his apartment that week, emblazoned with a familiar symbol, Jason had put it on. And when Alfred called to ask him to Christmas dinner, Jason had finally trusted himself enough to say yes.

Jason was tired of suffering. He didn't have the emotional maturity of a fifteen-year-old anymore. And he knew that, if he wanted to keep up with the vigilante gig in Gotham, that meant playing by the Bat's rules.   
And that meant, regardless of his avoidance tactics, being a part of the team on the field and off it.   
But that didn't mean he was going to be a pushover and go gallivanting with Dick over to Wayne Manor to sit on the roof, sipping Long Island iced teas and making goddamn daisy chains.   
Dick's relentless attempts to include him in the bright shining shitshow of a family were bothersome because Jason suspected, deep down, that he wasn't the person Dick wanted him to be. He was no longer the hot-headed, hero-worshipping kid who had given Dick that original booklet. He was a hot-headed, hero-avoidant adult with a minefield of emotional baggage and zero fucks to give about the fallacies of family.  
But the Replacement wasn't a subscriber to Dick's "big happy Batfam" schema. He wouldn't have tried to drag Jason into this mess if he didn't have a logical reason, independent of the sticky emotional pitfalls of Dick's constant pressure to participate. Replacement wasn't looking for unfucked-up Jason. He hadn't known unfucked-up Jason. He had invited fucked-up Jason. And hey, Jason may have played the part of reluctant-rope-in, but he wasn't about to let an opportunity to grind the other gift-givers into the ground pass him by. He was the secret weapon. And Bruce was a sore loser. Wouldn't it be sweet to see the look on his face as they absolutely annihilated him in the present department? Jason couldn't (and wouldn't) murder anyone in Gotham's city limits anymore, but he could murder Bruce's big fat billionaire ego and his self-satisfied sense of gift-giving pride. It wasn't like a couple of weeks of bothersome brotherly game nights and shit would kill him. Again.


	4. Chapter 4

The package was pocket-sized, colorful, and deftly wrapped.  
Efficient handwriting on the tag read: "To Dick, From Jason, Tim, and Damian" in vibrant black Sharpie.

Dick picked it up, eyebrows raising at the inscription, and gently opened it, complimenting the print on the frankly excessive amount of Superman wrapping paper the boys had used (what could he say, Jason was nothing if not thorough. If a gift didn't take at least ten minutes and a batarang to unwrap, well, it wasn't wrapped well enough). Jason gleefully noted that Bruce's eye seemed to have developed a slight twitch. Bruce excused himself, braving a reproachful glare from Alfred and stepping out of the room to take a work call.  
Once the wrapping paper was off and the booklet was revealed, Dick took a moment to look at it, turning it over in his hands. For a split second, Jason swore he saw a brief flicker of emotion pass over Dick's face, quickly replaced by a delighted thousand-watt grin which only grew in enthusiasm and visible molars as he flipped through the pages.

"Oh man, I cannot wait to use these." he said, re-reading the coupons.

Tim's grin was simultaneously self-satisfied and sheepish as he met Dick's excited eyes. "Yeah, well. Just let us know when you want to cash in on one."

"No," Dick interjected, "I meant I literally can't wait to use these. You guys are free right now, right?"

Dick didn' t wait for a response before flipping to Coupon #3 and slapping the booklet on the table. "Time for a family game night!" He looked up at them, eyes twinkling with mirth. Tim, feeling the beginnings of a sleep-deprivation headache, turned to meet the horrified glances of his brothers.

_What had they done?_

Steph was the first to speak.

  
"Alright. What do you want to lose at first?" She playfully cracked her knuckles, earning a wry grin from Cass.

"You lose." she gestured towards herself. "I win."

Damian rolled his eyes. "I presume Grayson is to pick the game?"

Jason moved to slide his chair back from the table. "Yeah, this has been fun, but-" Dick fixed him with an intent blue stare which decreased the temperature of the room by the second. "Wait a sec, Jay. It's my birthday. You're not going to leave early on my birthday-"

Jason crossed his arms. "I'll leave when I want, _Richard_."

Using his pointer finger and not breaking eye contact, Dick slid the freshly-opened coupon booklet in Alfred's direction. "Hey, Al," he said, equipped with a smarmy Cheshire grin, "Could you help me out and tell us what's on the tag? I may have mis-read it. English wasn't my first language, you know."

"Of course, Master Dick. Ahem. It reads: 'To Dick, From Ja-"

"Okay, okay, Alfie, we get it." Jason settled back into his seat, setting his shoulders and shooting Tim an intent glare. Tim shrugged, as if to say 'too late to back out now.'  
"Excellent. Now that you are all on the same page, I presume selecting a game is in order. Might I propose Monopoly? I seem to recall it being a great hit around the house in the past." Alfred daubed delicately at the side of his face with a napkin.

Jason snorted, eyes darting towards the kitchen before returning to his empty plate. "Yeah, if by hit you mean it hitting the ground." Dick nodded in agreement, hand on Damian's arm to keep him from stealing the butter knife. "Yeah, Monopoly's out of the question. I'm pretty sure Bruce burned our set anyway, after we ganged up on him and he got nailed at Park Place." He paused, thoughtfully. "I don't think he flipped the table that time, though. I'm pretty sure that was when he was stuck in Jail for like an hour and then, right after getting out, the first card he drew put him straight back in. Little did he know Jay and I had counted the cards."

Tim looked up from his phone, nodding appreciatively. "Classic." Jason couldn't help a wry grin.

"Yeah. That was the time we hid all of the 'Get out of Jail Free' cards."

Dick nodded. "We were so sick of him using Monopoly to try and teach us about corporate capitalism."

"Well," interjected Tim. "Sounds like you guys got the gist."

They were surprised to see Bruce, hand over the receiver, poke his head in from the kitchen. "I _knew_ it! That was cheating- oh, no, please go on- yes, about the shareholders-" he turned to go back in to the other room, but not before pressing the phone to his chest and stage-whispering across the dining room, "I'll have you know I donated our Monopoly set to Gotham Children's." before turning on his heel in the direction of the home office.

Jason nearly snorted again. Sometimes the resemblance between Bruce and the brat was scarily entertaining. He guessed drama was genetic.

Steph slapped the table, laughing so hard Tim could see tears beading at the corners of her eyes. Cass hid a smile behind her hand, Alfred hid his in his tea, and, despite his best efforts, the corner of Jason's mouth twitched upwards. Damian was wearing his customary scowl, doing his best to surreptitiously slip a scrap to Titus under the table while Dick put his hand to his chin, thinking.

"Hmmm. Pictionary?"

"No. No way." Tim cut in. "Whoever has Damian has an unfair advantage."

Surprise flitted briefly across Damian's features before he levelled his gaze towards Tim. "I don't need an 'unfair advantage' to destroy you in recreational games, Drake."

"Oh yeah?" challenged Tim, "I'd like to see you try not to get fucked on Rainbow Road." Alfred paused in collecting the dishes to cast Tim a disapproving "Language, Master Timothy" as Damian's grip on the butter knife tightened.

"Just because I haven't wasted my upbringing on insipid programming for children-"

Stephanie's "Wow, homophobic" was cut off by Jason's "Newsflash, brat. You _are_ a child" and Cass' gentle sliding of the leftover cake outside of the range of potential carnage.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa-" Dick's attempt to mediate the situation was cut off by the Manor's doorbell, which, to Bruce's constant consternation, had been reprogrammed by Tim to play the theme from the newest Superman T.V. special, as orchestrated by an overzealous cohort of Tuvan throat singers. Tim doubted his Wayne Enterprises credit card had been given to him for special commissions from Mongolian music groups, but, if Bruce asked, he was investing in culture and supporting the arts. And damn, the look on Bruce's face was worth it every time.

Conflict forgotten, Dick moved to get the door, but hadn't made it out of his chair when Alfred's "Miss Gordon, how lovely to see you." filtered in through the hall. Dick and Stephanie's delighted "Babs!" were met with a grin as the redhead wheeled herself up to the dining room table.

"Sorry I'm late." she said. "Did I miss anything good?"

Alfred appeared at her side. "You have arrived in the thick of deliberations on what to play for a group game session."

"Oh, I see." she said, glancing around the table, gaze settling on Dick as she quirked an eyebrow in a silent question. Sensing a challenge, Tim watched as Dick nodded and Barbara leaned up to Alfred, quietly whispering into his ear and following him as he turned back towards the hallway. All questions of what they were doing were answered in the form of the bright basketball Alfred salvaged from the depths of the front closet.

Babs smiled. "You guys still have that court in the back, right?"

Images rose, unbidden, to the surface of Jason's mind. Bruce, on the court, sweaty from an hour of "hand-eye-coordination training", playing thirteen-year-old Jason one-on-one and showing him how to sink his free throws. Bruce, teaming up with him against Dick on the rare nights Dick would come home from college. Bruce, laughing, as Jason played dirty, elbowing past him to make the last shot of the night before they went inside for milk and fresh cookies from Alfred. Bruce, towel in hand, ruffling his hair affectionately, telling him he was a 'monster on the court.' A monster. Jason's stomach dropped. If only he knew.

Jason shook his head, forcibly dispelling the memories as he stood to leave. What was he doing? Coming here and playing happy family had been a mistake, gift-giving be damned. Jason was running through half-assed excuses when his attention was diverted by the weight of a basketball hitting his sternum with a soft *thud.* Jason reflexively caught it, throwing it back to Barbara with a "Sorry. I can't stay."

Undeterred, the redhead looked him square in the eyes.

"What?" quipped Barbara, "Afraid of getting your ass kicked by a paraplegic?"

Cass clapped delightedly, accompanied by Stephanie's "Ooooohhhhhhh" and Tim's frankly embarrassing air horn impersonation.

Oh, it was _so_ on.

"Fine." growled Jason. "One game. League rules. Four ten-minute quarters. Then I'm outta here." He didn't acknowledge the whoops and cheers coming from the rest of the table, instead turning to join Dick and Tim as they went to raid the BatCave of its disturbingly high amount of custom-made wheelchairery.

When they first hit the court, it was complete and utter chaos. Damian struggled to maneuver in his too-big chair, ignorant to Tim's gleeful setting of the brake as the culprit for his endless circles on the three-point-line. Dick only somewhat struggled to maneuver in his too-small chair, having called dibs on one he'd spent recovery time in after a years-ago incident with the Riddler. Sentiment. Jason shook his head. He was pretty sure he was in one of Bruce's chairs, an older model from his early Bat days. Steph and Cass were racing each other around the court in two of Babs' former models, and Tim was alternating repping quarter-turns and laughing at Damian's continued plight.  
It ended up being Jason, Steph, Tim, and Cass against Babs, Dick, and Damian. Dick's technical difficulties and Damian's rectified brake situation more-or-less made up for the number disadvantage, though Jason suspected Babs- despite sinking every shot she'd taken- was going easy on them.

Everyone was too distracted disregarding the basic rules of the game and ferociously trashtalking the opposition (Babs, to Steph: "that was a lame throw!" Steph, to Babs: "your _mom's_ a lame throw!") to remember the time limits. And when Jason asked, it shouldn’t have come as a surprise to anyone that their official timekeeper had conveniently forgotten to start the clock.

“Oh dear. I must apologize-” replied Alfred, without a trace of apology. “It appears I’ve forgotten to adequately keep time. Allow me to start the clock.”

Only Cassandra caught the ASL thank-you Dick threw the butler’s way as the teams faced off in the center of the court, starting whistle cut off by the sound of the back door opening to reveal an expressionless Bruce. Bruce surveyed the scene, turning to Damian as he rolled up to the side steps.

"Father." he exclaimed petulantly. "Grayson has conceived this idiotic gameplay despite its clear numerical unsuitability-"

Bruce’s mouth quirked. "Is that so?" he asked his youngest, glancing meaningfully over to Alfred, who stealthily disappeared inside the house.

"Yes." Damian continued. "It’s not fair when our team is so clearly at a disadvantage."

"Sure," added Tim drily, "Such a disadvantage when we're only up by like two points."

Bruce glanced over, taking in the team distributions. "I see. It sounds like you could use a rematch."

"But Father," protested Damian, "the same inequalities remain."

"Well, I guess we'll have to rectify that," Bruce replied as Alfred re-emerged from the house, complete with a spare wheelchair. Then, the unexpected. Bruce Wayne smiled, shed his suit jacket, rolled to the center of the court, locked eyes with the opposition, and made the universal hand sign for "I'm watching you." He looked directly at Jason and said,

"Don't worry. I'll go easy on you."

Tim's eyebrows nearly lodged themselves in his hairline. Damian gaped like a Gothamite goldfish. Jason's reply was automatic:

"Oh, you’re _on_ old man!"

And with that, Jason, competitive fire alight in his eyes, led his team in a ferocious offensive maneuver that rendered all his thoughts of quietly slipping out of the side of the house entirely forgotten.

Alfred observed the major ass-whooping Bruce, Babs, and Dick doled out on the others, feeling that there was something symbolic in the family's use of the chairs for fun. But he couldn't help but note that Bruce's- and his childrens'- competence with the wheelchairs had come at a terrible price. He couldn't remember the last time Bruce had joined any of the boys on the court. It had to have been Before Jason. Alfred glanced at the game clock, reaching down to stop it before it ticked down to zero. As he listened to the whoops and hollers and squeaks of the wheels on the tarmac, he couldn't bring himself to feel guilty. He was an old man, after all, and everyone knew old people were terrible with technology. It couldn't be helped.

After the game, Dick walked with Jason to his motorbike, hands in his pockets and face turned up to the wind. Jason strapped on his helmet, suppressing his discomfort at the lack of security it provided when compared to his other helmet, the one that kept the world out and his personal life in. He mounted his bike, swinging a leg over and preparing to start off down the road when Dick finally spoke.

"Thanks, Jay. This was a pretty great birthday."

Jason tilted his head in Dick's direction. "Yeah, well. One coupon down, nine to go."

Dick's expression became downright mischievous. "Oh, not by my count."

Jason turned sharply. "Did you dump all the shit you picked up in Mathletes, genius? We gave you ten. Game night was one. Now you have nine."

"Oh contraire," countered Dick. "I don't remember using the coupon for it."

Jason felt his blood pressure rising. "You-"

Dick held up a hand, "Ah- you see, I said 'Time for a family game night.' You guys didn't ask if I was using any of my coupons. Haven't you seen Aladdin?"

Jason ground his teeth. "We don't live in a goddamn Disney movie, Dick."

Dick grinned. "I don't know, I think we've got the parent count down." he headed back in the direction of the house, turning his head to shout, "Be here this Saturday! I'm using #8. For real this time! Liftoff's at ten!"

Jason pretended not to hear, relishing the wind in his ears and the sensation of flying, the glow of his taillights following him as he faded into the night.

Wait. Coupon #8? Wasn't that one for a hike?

Jesus Christ.


	5. Chapter 5

Friday nights hit differently when your go-to extracurricular was fighting crime. While the citizens of Gotham were getting ready for a fun night out on the town, Jason was getting ready for a trying night of making sure their nights stayed that way.

  
Maybe there was something in the city's water (again), but this week had been brutal, and Friday was no exception. The Red Hood had broken up five muggings, a car-jacking, and a local dealer who'd ignored his cardinal rule. Jason's district was down a considerable number of functional knee-caps, and that was before the unnecessarily maudlin clock by the neighborhood bank had even struck midnight.

  
Needless to say, Dick's ridiculous hiking trip -and its ambitious morning call-time- was the last thing on Jason's mind as he coaxed a battered seven-year-old from the shadows of a side-alley, bought him a cheeseburger, and slipped up the fire escape to scare his scumbag abusive father-in-law out of both his aggressive habits and Gotham's city limits. He left the kid with the conveniently-nearby Red Robin while he dropped info for one of the good family and child services safehouses in the upstairs mail slot.

  
It was going to be a long night.

When he finally finished stretching the knots from his overtaxed muscles and tumbled into bed, his second-to-last thought upon drifting off was that he'd forgotten to set a morning alarm.

His last thought before drifting off was that he didn't give a flying fuck.

\---

The knocks were sharp, brief, and unapologetic. They came in a pair, and Jason- already awake courtesy of his subconscious' committed nightmare regimen- knew from their sound (and how low they were on the door) exactly who was behind them.

  
What he wasn't expecting to see on the low-res security feed was the large coffee and potential McMuffin meal combo in Damian's free hand. Jason initially made no effort to fight his gut impulse to leave him there and slip out to one of his safehouses to attempt sleep again, Dick be damned. He was halfway out the window when the smell of the breakfast combo hit him.

He hesitated.

Well…he was already awake. And- his stomach gurgled- it would be a shame to let that food go to waste in the hands of a diminutive vegetarian.

  
Groaning, Jason shut the window and made his way to the door, disengaging the security features as he went. It opened to reveal an unimpressed Damian.

"About time, Todd. I was beginning to think you died in there."

  
Well. Jason could respect that kind of cold open. He struggled to maintain a straight face.

  
Damn, after so much time with Dick the demon brat was finally developing a sense of humor. That joke had sounded more like Tim, though. This birthday togetherness shit was blending their singular brain cells into one hive-minded mass of idiocy.

  
Actually, now that Jason thought about it, the death jokes…they were more his territory. Maybe he was spending too much time around the kid. Any longer and Bruce might start restricting the babybat's playdates with the other formerly-homicidal black sheep of the family.

  
Sleep-deprived brain devoid of a satisfying response, Jason settled for snatching the bag, fishing out the hashbrown, and taking a sip of coffee alongside a rare moment to cherish McDonald's disregard for consumer health. It was always nice to actually feel the sensation of heat on his deadened tastebuds. He took a massive bite and raised an eyebrow in Damian's direction. The Batbrat was, for the second time that week, standing uncomfortably inside his front door.

  
"Greyson thought you might require sustenance before today's venture." He levelled his eyes imperiously at Jason, who was scarfing down the edible olive branch.

Bruce had found out years ago that fast food was the quickest way to Jason's heart. If only he had known that there was a good chance the Red Hood's rampage could have been stopped by a well-timed pizza delivery. And remedial murder to ease up the double-barrell of mutual disappointment. Ah, well. Can't win 'em all.

  
Jason matched Damian's cold glare to the icy degree.

"Oh yeah? Why isn't he here, then?"

Damian opened his mouth to reply, but Jason cut him off.

"You flipped a coin for Replacement wake-up duty, didn't you?"

Damian's expression told him everything he needed to know. Jason smirked, glancing at his clock. 9:35. Shoving the rest of the hashbrown in his mouth, he slid his feet into his boots, throwing his jacket over his shoulder and shouldering his way out the door while decidedly trying not to think about the way Damian's eyes were following him warily around the room. He headed out, swinging his keys around his finger and throwing a cheeky "chop chop, baby bird, we're on the clock" over his shoulder as he mentally prepared himself for the mansion.

Jason noticed Damian pull the hood of his sweatshirt around his face as they left the building, and thanked his unlucky stars that he no longer had to deal with the publicity nightmare that was being a (living, recognizable) Wayne. God, the goddamn galas had been bad enough when he was fourteen, stuffed like a sausage into formal attire and hoping for the part of the night when Dick would come out of his Bruce-induced funk enough to show up and rescue Jason from obligatory social interaction and fancy finger foods with his winning smile and a back-pocket box of chicken nuggets.

Different times.

Jason spotted the car idling in the alley, sliding into shotgun with a "Hey, Alfie."  
To the average person, the butler's carefully maintained British stoicism remained unchanged, but to Jason, the smile hidden in the crinkles was as evident as the smell of the baked goods in the brown paper bag resting in the shotgun seat.

"Greetings, Master Jason. May I interest you in a chocolate muffin?"

Jason reached for the proffered bag with a "Thanks, A," suddenly thirteen again and telling Alfred about his day at school, throwing shade at his preppy classmates, running ideas for his next English papers by the butler as he tore into the assortment of sweets that were waiting. Some days, Bruce would get out of his work meetings early and come with, and the three of them would go to the movies or, if the Knights were playing, Gotham's baseball stadium, where they would chow down on cheap hotdogs, ballcaps pulled low over their faces and hopes high for an upset in their favor. Shit. He rubbed a hand down his face. Had the McMuffin come spiked with memory enhancers and nostalgia on the side? Maybe his brain was recovering from the blending of before, but the flashbacks weren't doing him any favors in his quest to avoid sentiment all-together. The chronic sleep deprivation probably wasn't helping. Jason closed his eyes and leaned back against the headrest.

It was too damn early for this.

\---

Jason lounged against the side of the small plane, lamenting how every decision he had ever made in his life had led him to this moment.

Why the Batmobile? He could've chosen anything with tires. The OscarMeyer Wienermobile had been sighted a few streets over that day. He could have liberated the hot dog bourgeoise of a couple Michelins instead, but nooo. Sure, being a homeless orphan on the streets of the crime district had been a bad beat, but here he was, facing down a beaming Dick Grayson as he readied a literal airplane for their obligatory hiking venture. Fucking hot dogs.

Jason's attention drifted to a heated exchange between Alfred and the Replacement, as the former berated the latter for attempting to synthesize a form of caffeine suitable for IV administration. His gaze wandered further, to where the Demon was throwing a ball for one of his many Demon pets. Jason tried not to feed his brain's twinge of jealousy, remembering an instance in which he had asked Bruce for a puppy, only to get a brief glance from the newspaper and a "We'll see." in acknowledgement. Yeah, they saw all right. With the benefit of hindsight, it was probably for the best. He wouldn't have wanted to die on a dog. Damian continued to play fetch with the massive hound in the side yard, for once free of the constipated expression he wore almost constantly.

Jason blew a breath out his nose, walking up to Dick on the landing platform and extending his hand, palm-up.

"Alright, Big Bird, Coupon #3. Cough it up."

Dick pulled the requested coupon from the front pocket of his- wait. Why was Dick wearing a parka?

Shit.  
Jason glanced down at the coupon in his hand, his re-reading accompanied by Dick's sing-song voice: "Redeem for one hike to a place of your choice." Shitty shit. Jason was going to have a real talk with Tim after this. He remembered the night they'd decided on the coupons, Tim listing options while Damian sulkily looked on.

"Okay, so next we have a free hug-"

Jason put his foot down. "No."

Tim glanced up. "But-"

Jason's eyes narrowed. "Oh no. Nopety nope. No hugs. Pick something else. Hockey. Halloween decorating. Hiking through a mystical meadow singing Girl Scout songs, for all I care. No hugs." For once, Damian looked like he was in agreement.

Jason cursed his shortsightedness as he donned a parka and strapped into his seat, praying to a higher power he didn't believe in that they wouldn't land at the base of a frozen volcano and cursing the night he'd let a free climbing show play on Netflix one of the few times Dick dragged him to his apartment for a post-patrol beer.

The second the plane's door hissed shut, Dick was out of his seat and at the console, typing up a storm.

"Dickolas." Jason said warningly, "Care to explain the hackfest?"

"No worries, Jay." Dick replied as he cheerily clickety-clacked his way through what was surely a security mainframe. "I'm just-"

"He's hacking the nav systems." Tim cut in. "Probably disabling the GPS homing input to the BatComputer, while he's at it." An undercurrent of respect colored the exhaustion of his tone.

"Don't sound so surprised, Timmers, you're not the only tech-savvy bird in the family." Dick grinned as he hit 'Enter' with a flourish, gracefully sliding back into his seat as the computer adjusted their course to their specifications.

Damian looked unconvinced. "Grayson, what have you done?"

Dick reached over to ruffle his hair. "Don't sweat, Little D. Bruce thinks we're going National Park hopping. I thought we could go somewhere a little more…low-profile."

Jason tuned out the ensuing conversation, pulling up the hood of his parka and doing his best to doze amidst Damian and Tim's half-hearted jibefest. He just needed to get this hike- and the rest of the godforsaken coupons- over with so he could get on with his life.

Try as he might, he couldn't shake the sensation that there was something not-quite-right with their resident Red Robin. At Tim's tone, Jason had cracked an eye open to take a closer look at him. He was used to Tim looking like a new-age vampire, all pale-ness and dark circles and the "I just forgot to get a haircut for four months" fringe, and he knew that no one in their merry band of misfit toys was in the running for a Dr. Phil-approved amount of sleep (honestly, there were a lot of things about their lifestyle that Dr. Phil wouldn't approve of), but Tim looked like he was pushing the limits of even the Bat brand of sleeplessness. He literally looked like he hadn't slept a wink. And not in an "I've been too busy and I just forgot to sleep what with the eighteen cups of coffee in my system" way. More like an "I tried to sleep and couldn't, and may never sleep again despite my crippling exhaustion" kind of way. Jason replayed the notable moments of the night before in his mind. Had Tim gotten hurt and lost another internal organ?

Jason couldn't remember any telling bouts of shouting or gunfire, or -even more telling- pained silences. Everyone had been their regular, quippy, chucklefuck selves on the comms. Steph had gotten spooked by a sewer possum, Damian had nearly skewered a man for kicking an Alley cat, and Dick had AirDropped a Rick Roll as a diversion tactic, but- based on the chatter- everyone had made it through patrol without grave personal injury. Jason mulled over what could have happened as he drifted off to sleep. It was totally out of personal concern. Tim could pass out from exhaustion and drag them all off the mountain with him. It's not like Jason cared about his wellbeing. But still. Something had ruffled the little bird's feathers, and he wondered what had done it.

Jason's questions were answered as he drifted towards consciousness to the sound of harsh whispers to his left.

"C'mon Timmers, you have to talk to him." Dick's voice.

Tim's sounded like he was pinching the bridge of his nose. "Dick, I ended a phone call with an accidental 'I love you.' He hasn't texted me since. There's no bouncing back from that."

Dick's voice. "Tim, he's calling you right now-" The sound of Tim ferociously silencing his phone and throwing it in his backpack "-you need to talk to him."

"What I need," Tim's voice, "is to hurl myself into the ocean. Because can't take the awkward 'we're friends and I don't see you that way rejection' right now." Jason's eyes were still closed, but he would have bet Tim's vintage batarang collection that Dick had put a supportive hand on the younger boy's shoulder.

"C'mon. I've known Kon a long time, and-"

Tim stopped the motivational pep talk in its tracks. "Save it. I don't need relationship counselling from you. I have a plan, and its to go on this hike, find a good hole, crawl into it and die."

Dick went silent. Surely the irony was not lost on him that he was perhaps the go-to person for platonic-to-romantic relationship advice. His track record, though extensive, wasn't great in terms of preservation of friendships, though. Except maybe Barbara. The jury was still out on Kori.

Jason kept his eyes closed and breaths even.

So. The Replacement had a thing for the super-clone. And from the sound of it, he had it bad. Jason knew he couldn't hope to beat up Superboy in the event of a broken heart, but he could get a few good threats in. Bruce was living proof that, with enough front-planning, one could take down God Himself and make it back to the mansion in time for Alfred's potroast later that night.

Speaking of, if the plane kept going much longer, Jason highly doubted they'd make it back for dessert, much less a pot roast. Where the fuck were they headed? He cycled through a variety of options. Mount Saint Helens? Kilimanjaro? Everest?

Oh, god, Olympus Mons? They hadn't specified a coupon planet cap.

When the plane touched down and the loading dock dropped, Jason took in their frozen surroundings and groaned.

Oh no, this was much worse.

He whirled on Dick, spurred on by his innocent expression.

"What the hell, Dick? Are we looking for Santa's Workshop? I can save you some time. None of us made the Nice list this year." Jason wasn't alone in his ire. Tim had turned to Dick and was glaring daggers.

"I hate you so much right now."

The Fortress of Solitude loomed ahead, oblivious to and unconcerned by their frustration.

\---

The hike had started out slowly and, frankly, kind of awkward. Jason and Damian were quiet, Tim was a zombie, and Dick was desperately trying to make a conversation happen. Things had settled in after Jason, eyeing the trail up ahead, pulled Damian to the side.

"Makes you think of the climb up to the League, huh?"

"Tt." came the insolent reply. "I don't see any flowers."

Jason couldn't help himself. He raised his eyebrows in surprise. Two jokes? In one day? Jesus, someone must have given the kid's humorless O.S. an upgrade. Maybe Dick was right. This had been good for him. He would never be a normal child, but maybe the hikes and stuff could lend a semblance of normalcy to what was left of his childhood. Except for when he dressed up in an increasingly-spiky derivative of the costume of a family of long-dead acrobats and ran across city rooftops to fight crime on a regular basis.

Jason gestured down the way, past where Dick and Tim were talking, engaged in what was likely Dick's 3848349th attempt to impart emotio-relational wisdom and ignorant to the tantalizing snowdrift hanging over a latter portion of the path. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

Damian, unimpressed, soldiered on.

"C'mon, live a little, "Little D." Gotta give Grayson the full League hike experience."

Damian kept walking.

Jason played his trump card.

"We can dump most of it on the Replacement."

At this, Damian paused, swiping a gloved hand across his nose before looking over to Jason and offering him a curt nod. They lagged behind, remembering their hard-learned snow assassin lessons and looking for the best, most soundless way up the shelf. Dick and Tim, meanwhile, engrossed in their fruitless and one-sided discussion, failed to notice when Jason gave Damian a leg up and disappeared from the path behind them. They remained oblivious until the moment a massive snowbank was deposited on them from above, and the only sounds remaining in their conversation were a series of aghast noises and a "You've got to be KIDDING ME."

Jason noticed the corner of Damian's mouth twitch upward, so like Bruce it was uncanny, and felt an unexpected burst of warmth at the satisfied nod the little bird directed his way. It was better than the pained and distant expression he'd been wearing on the way up. Jason was pretty sure that had something to do with the rage-hazy rumors that a younger Damian had been made to climb a different snow-covered mountain with a broken wrist. A climb with flowers but devoid of forgiveness.

They stopped for a snack break in a nearby clearing, throwing protein bars at each other and dusting the snow from their parkas. Dick, ever the show-off, did a gratuitous double-backflip from a boulder while Damian busied himself alternately with his phone and with trying to lure a fox from the underbrush. Jason stood with Tim, passing him a caffeine pill in silence and accepting the grateful grin Tim shot his way in reply. Jason watched the fox dart out to nibble a tidbit of jerky before scurrying back into the bushes. Noting the absence of impromptu gymnastics, Jason glanced around, following Tim's gaze to an uncharacteristically quiet Dick, standing at the edge of the clearing, eyes directed to the horizon in a thousand-yard stare.  
Jason turned towards Tim, gesturing with his granola bar.

"What's up with Dickiebird?"

"Aside from being a meddlesome font of unsolicited wisdom? Probably the general vibe." Tim knuckled his forehead. "I don't think he's been up here since what happened with Wally."

Oh.

Jason and the speedster had never been close, but when he first came to live in the mansion, Dick and Wally had been inseparable. Then Wally had retired and paired off with the archer and Dick had been left to moon until the next redhead crossed his path. The incident in the Arctic had happened while Jason was still off the grid, but he knew Dick had been there to watch his best friend dissolve into the Speedforce from afar. It probably hadn't happened too far from where they were standing.

Well. It didn't do to dwell and all that Dumbledore shit. Jason turned to Tim.

"Record this."

After the three seconds it took Tim to ready his phone, Jason took aim at the back of Dick's head, lined up, and let fly. Tim Drake's video edit of a half-eaten granola bar nailing Richard Greyson solidly on the cerebellum was trending on Twitter for two days.

When they finally made it to the Fortress' massive front door, many hours and swearing and well-placed grappling hooks later, Jason was grateful for two things, the first being the copious amounts of WE funds being channeled into the heat preservation tech in their winterwear. He knew they'd been designed with Gotham nights and breezy rooftops in mind rather than the unforgiving frigidity of the Arctic Circle, but they functioned just as well as if interwoven into the hefty Bat-suit Bruce wore from October to March.

Secondly, he was grateful for the difficulty of the hike. It allowed him a reprieve from the inside of his head. He'd never shied away from a physical challenge, and certainly never from a competitive one, even unspoken, and Dick, with all his flips and tricks, couldn't match Jason for raw muscle and sheer endurance. So Jason spent his hike mercilessly flexing on Dick, making sure Tim didn't collapse off the side of the cliff into the deep ravine he kept throwing longing glances towards, giving Damian a leg up when the babybat's pride would allow it, and blissfully thinking about nothing but the next series of snow-caked steps.

Bruce could grumble about the inaccessibility all he wanted, the Fortress of Solitude was stylish as hell. Imposing and magnificent from the two-ton doormat and up, it outclassed everything about the BatCave from first glance and further. Their moment of silence in the face of its majesty was unceremoniously broken by a harried-looking Tim.

"Alright, we made it, go team, time to leave now." Tim was unsubtle in his discomfort, casting panicked glances to the security cameras nestled in the cliffside and fidgeting back toward the way they'd entered.

Dick's wicked grin returned. "Wait just a second, the coupon said 'Redeem for one hike to a place of your choice.' I chose the Fortress. We're currently outside of it. I want to go in it. So, unless you guys have a way in, my coupon still stands."

Tim spluttered. "You know there are only like three people who can get in there, right?"

Dick shrugged. "Guess we'll have to wait a while…or, we can keep coming back. It really is lovely here this time of year." He readjusted his backpack straps. "If only we could call someone who could let us in. That could really save us some time."

Jason nearly snorted. Subtle.

Tim's eyes narrowed to slits. He turned and shouted into the ravine for the second time that day. "You've got to be KIDDING ME." He whirled on Dick, hands in his hair. "Is this your idea of being helpful? Because it's manipulative and dumb and I'M NOT DOING IT."

"Doing what?" Dick said sweetly, looking unrepentant.

Tim looked a few hairs short of a complete mental breakdown. "Don't pretend like you didn't plan this entire excursion to meddle in my nonexistent love life! Well, it's not going to work, because I'M NOT CALLING CONNER."

Meanwhile, Damian, who had been texting all day, pocketed his phone and crossed his arms smugly as the rock began to rumble, doors sliding open to reveal none other than Conner and Jonathan Kent.

"Okay." said Kon. "I prefer talking in person anyway."

Jason quietly repositioned himself between Tim and the cliff, just in case.

\---

Despite the drama, the rest of the afternoon was not a total disaster. Damian and Jon ran off to make good on a past-promised tour, and Kon whisked a chagrined Tim away to somewhere they could talk without interruption (though Jason wouldn't put it past Damian to persuade Jon into derailing their tour for a bit of light eavesdropping, Lord knew Bruce only endorsed their friendship out of a hope and a gamble that Jon would be a better influence on Damian than Damian was a bad influence on him).

Tuckered out after such a grueling ascent, and acutely feeling his lack of sleep, Jason sat on a bench overlooking the statues of who he guessed to be Superman's biological parents, based on the distinctly alien-looking garb and the sheer scale of them. Dick plopped down beside him, slinging his backpack off his shoulders and resting his elbows on his knees. Jason braced himself for a conversation about family, or worse, _feelings_. To his surprise, Dick leaned down and unzipped his backpack, pulling out some stencils and what looked suspiciously like a can of spray paint. "Wanna have some fun?"

Jason grinned. Now they were speaking his language. "Pretty sure that's a misdemeanor, Big D. There might be some street delinquent in you yet."

Dick returned the smile with an unbothered shrug. "Eh, the land jurisdiction gets tricky up here. This stuff-" he shook the can of paint in his hand "is biodegradable, so we're not breaking any conservation laws. If you want to talk sovereignty-"

"Shut up." Jason took the can from his hand, expression bright. "Let's slap some bats where the Supes are never gonna find 'em."

And if they tagged an exorbitant amount of the cavern with invisible (but glow-in-the-dark) bat symbols, well. Superman would never have to know about it.

Unless he was ever in there with the lights off. Yikes. That could get awkward.

\---

Bruce was sitting on the porch, drinking an afternoon tea with Alfred as they made their way back to the mansion.

  
"How was Glacier?" he asked, eyes drifting across the butler's crossword puzzle.

"Oh, pretty empty." fluffernutted Dick. "Saw some friendly faces, though."

Jason, having reclaimed his leather jacket and swapped it for the bulky parka, threw a wink Tim's way as he turned to leave.

He paused.

A wolfish grin grew across his features as he took one last look back a Dick.

"Yeah. Pretty solitudinous, if you ask me."

The look on Dick's face made it all worth it, hotdog tires be damned.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm playing fast and loose with canon and am still brainstorming more coupon ideas- lmk in the comments if there's something you want to see! (also have mercy on me- this is the first time I've had the moxie to actually write something and I'm totally figuring this out as I go along lmaoo)  
> p.s. Thank you so much for the kind comments and kudos! This has been so fun and I'm loving spending time with these Gotham goofballs. S/o to Jason for hijacking the story and to my brain for not wanting to sleep because writing this has been such a blast! Homework? Who is she?  
> Thanks for stopping by!


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